


February, 1999

by JJK



Series: Life, Interrupted [5]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Gen, M/M, Smut, Substance Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, this is not a happy chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-24 15:04:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJK/pseuds/JJK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras balanced the cardboard tray of coffee cups in the crook of his elbow, his hand clutching a bag of apology bagels as he undid the seventeen locks to get into Grantaire’s apartment. It wasn’t really surprising that he hadn’t answered the door. Enjolras didn’t blame him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [Kim](http://combeferree.tumblr.com/) and [Batusa](http://enjolraspermitsit.tumblr.com/) for helping with this chapter. 
> 
> This chapter will be less cheery than the others have been.

_February, 1999 (Enjolras is 23, Grantaire is 27)_

Enjolras balanced the cardboard tray of coffee cups in the crook of his elbow, his hand clutching a bag of apology bagels as he undid the seventeen locks to get into Grantaire’s apartment. It wasn’t really surprising that he hadn’t answered the door. Enjolras didn’t blame him.

“Hey,” he called out, manoeuvring around the door and keeping his eyes fixed intently on not spilling the coffee. It was still balanced in the crook of his elbow, and wobbled precariously a couple of times, but he managed to unload it onto the breakfast bar with spilling a drop. “Sorry about yesterday, I was out of line. I didn’t mean...” he trailed off as he placed the bagels on the counter and let his shoulders slump. “I was a jerk,” he admitted, turning round and encountering Grantaire’s empty bed. The sheets were hopelessly tangled, pulling away from the corner to reveal the threadbare mattress underneath. “R?” Enjolras spun around, Grantaire’s self-assigned nickname rolling off his tongue. He wasn’t sure what Grantaire made of Enjolras calling him that, but it was just, he just wasn’t…wasn’t Grantaire yet. Not Enjolras’ Grantaire. Not yet. “R…?”

Enjolras ducked into the tiny excuse for a bathroom, not expecting to find him. He may be trying to avoid Enjolras, but he wasn’t pathetic enough to just hide in the bathroom and hope he went away, thankfully.

There were too many discarded clothes on the floor to discern if he’d Travelled or if he was just out. Either way, Enjolras decided to wait.

He made the bed before folding it back into a sofa and threw open the curtains to let some of the grey, watery sunlight trickle into the room. It was a rather disgusting room; he had to pick his way around empty bottles and half dried palettes of paint, clothes that probably needed a good wash, and plates that definitely needed scrubbing. Other than moving the empty bottles to the bin and the dirty plates to the sink, Enjolras left the room as it was. He was trying to patch things up after their argument; tidying up after Grantaire would probably only make things worse. 

Enjolras didn’t understand why. He’d given up trying to understand why. It was probably an extrapolated metaphor, that Enjolras’ attempts to clean his apartment meant he was trying to clean his life – or something equally ridiculous. Regardless, he’d tried it once, and it had resulted in a screaming match, so he wasn’t about to try again, no matter how much he might want to.

He picked up a coffee and a bagel, dug out his week’s reading from his messenger bag and curled up on the sofa to wait for R to get back.

=

The sun moved from the window to be replaced by street lights. Enjolras wasn’t worried just yet. He didn’t exactly know how long it was normal for Grantaire to be gone when he Travelled. He’d once spent three days hidden in the basement of Enjolras’ parents’ house during a snow storm, so Enjolras suspected his could still be gone for a while. Still, he felt a little useless just sitting here, waiting.

Grantaire didn’t carry a cell phone (“what’s the point? It’s only going to get lost or broken.”). True, the only times he really needed to use it would be when he didn’t have it with him anyway, but he didn’t seem to factor in that people might want to call him. He apparently still couldn’t grasp the fact that sometimes Enjolras might want to reach him in places where a landline would be no good.

He settled for calling Jehan instead. 

“Hello!” came the breezy greeting. 

Enjolras could hear Jehan’s smile, and it was infectious.

“Was Grantaire in work today?”

“No,” Jehan replied slowly, his smile slipping audibly. “No, he never comes in on his birthday.”

Enjolras managed to thank him and end the call in what hopefully came across as a calm and collected manner. He was almost hyperventilating when he placed the phone back in its cradle, though.

Birthday.

Shit.

He grabbed his coat and keys and stumbled trying to get out of the apartment as fast as humanly possible. He fumbled with the thirty three locks on the door and flew down the stairs.

Birthday.

Fucking _fuck_.

=

It quickly became apparent that he wasn’t going to find Grantaire in any of the places he usually visited. Grantaire hadn’t been lying when he said they moved in different circles, and quite frankly, Enjolras wasn’t sure where to start. He spun a couple of times on the spot, pulling at his hair.

He knew R had a tendency to drink himself blind, knew that after a fight that tendency was heightened – and considering that fact that he hadn’t even told Enjolras it was his birthday, he knew, he knew that R would be somewhere, upping his blood alcohol percentage to dangerous levels.

He took off towards the part of town he generally avoided, aiming to find the seediest, grimiest, most un-Enjolras place he could.

=

Fragments of the fight came back unbidden as he ran from place to place, breathless and desperate. He tried to ignore them; he didn’t want to dwell on the outspokenly awful things he’d said. Ducking under the door of a particularly nasty-looking establishment, he was halfway through his sweep of the corners when he felt rough hands on his jacket.

“Alright, pretty boy,” a voice purred grotesquely in his ear. 

Enjolras wrenched himself free and stumbled away from the perpetrator, straightening out his jacket and fixing the frankly disgusting man with a hard glare. 

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing here? That’s a nice coat you got there, bet it cost a small fortune. Bet you got a nice wallet to match.” The man snaked an arm out to Enjolras, trying to grab him again, which Enjolras batted away.

“Try to touch me again and you’re a dead man.” Enjolras growled. Rather than having the desired effect of getting the man to back off, it only made him laugh.

“A dead man? Oh, Angel face, I’d like to see you try,” the man purred. He reached out with both hands this time, managing to fix a grip on Enjolras’ waist. He stamped down on the man’s foot before bringing his knee up to collide sharply with his balls. The man doubled over slightly, but his hand remained grasped on the material by Enjolras’ hip, the other holding his right arm fixed firmly to his side.

Although predominantly right handed, Enjolras was pretty much ambidextrous. He curled his fist, ignoring the lump in his throat as he remembered it had been Grantaire who taught him how to defend himself – one afternoon in the meadow after he’d found Enjolras nursing a black eye – and swung his arm at the man’s jaw, aiming _through_ him and succeeding in making him stumble away from Enjolras, where he collided with the burly figure who’d appeared behind him.

“Enjolras?” he gaped, catching the man and immediately securing a grip on the neck of the man’s shirt.

Enjolras had never been so pleased to see Bahorel in his life.

“Nice left hook,” he appraised Enjolras, who was still reeling from the whole affair.

Bahorel propped the man back on his feet, rearranged his collar and told him in no uncertain terms that if he ever tried anything like that again, Bahorel would personally see to it that he would be eating through a straw for the rest of his life; following it up with a quick jab to the stomach and an uppercut which finished off the broken jaw that Enjolras had almost given him. It sent the man howling to his knees.

With a satisfied smirk, Bahorel threw his arm around Enjolras’ shoulder and steered him away from the bar.

“You alright?” he asked, once outside.

Enjolras stared up at him, mouth hanging slightly slack. “Yes,” he coughed. “Yes, thank you.”

Bahorel was a 6’5”, probably 250 pound mass of muscle with tanned skin and almond eyes that spoke of eastern Mediterranean or Middle Eastern descent. The sides of his head were completely shaved; leaving a shock of dark hair in the middle that fell forwards over his eyes, and curled slightly at the nape of his neck. Tattoos swirled up down both arms, a thick orange spike protruded from his earlobe and his eyebrow was shot through with a metal bar, but when he grinned at Enjolras he somehow managed to look like a fucking teddy bear. 

“No worries, it looked like you had a pretty good handle on it yourself.”

Enjolras nodded slightly.

“But what were you doing in there, man? It doesn’t look like your usual haunt.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said simply, realising that if anyone knew where Grantaire would be, it would be Bahorel. As far as Enjolras could tell, they’d been drinking buddies for years.

“We fought and I –” he inhaled sharply. “It’s his birthday and I can’t find him,” he said eventually. It seemed to do the trick.

“Shit. I didn’t – I mean. This way.”

Bahorel began sprinting down the sidewalk. Enjolras struggled to keep up with his long strides.

“I’m usually on shift for his Birthday Blowout, but I thought – Maxine wanted the shift, I thought he’d be with you anyway, I – shit.” he cursed.

Enjolras was trying not to panic, trying to make sense of what Bahorel was saying.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he kept saying, tearing round a corner and diving through the doors of a bar Enjolras had never been in before.

“Bahorel?” a female voice shouted. “Oh thank god – I didn’t know what to do, he didn’t – I wasn’t –”

 _People really needed to start finishing their sentences_ , Enjolras ground his teeth together as he followed Bahorel through the door. He stopped dead in his tracks as he saw the bartender kneeling beside someone who had evidently slipped off the bar stool. It wasn’t, it couldn’t be, “Grantaire?”

He pushed through the chairs and tables and dropped to his knees, taking Grantaire’s head into his lap and stroking the dark curls from his eyes. They were wide open, glazed over and unresponsive. “Grantaire?” 

Bahorel was on the phone, calmly talking to the ambulance dispatcher whilst consoling an evidently distressed Maxine, and somehow managing to keep the curious, worried patrons at bay. Enjolras would have been impressed had he not been completely consumed by worry for Grantaire.

“Ambulance is on its way, Enjolras. Don’t worry,” Bahorel told him soothingly, before standing up and seating Maxine on a stool and fetching her a glass of water.

Enjolras nodded, but couldn’t fathom thoughts into words. Grantaire’s breathing was too slow, barely discernible. Sweat sheened on his forehead and he looked so, so pale. 

“Grantaire, Grantaire,” he mouthed endlessly, fingers worrying through the black curls, hands shaking as he cradled him in his lap. 

=

Enjolras didn’t want to let go. The paramedics practically had to prise him off so they could place Grantaire on a gurney, and even then he firmly held Grantaire’s hand as they wheeled him outside and into the waiting ambulance.

“I’ll call the others!” Bahorel shouted as the doors closed, but honestly, Enjolras wasn’t listening.

He was drowning in a sea of guilt and fear and regret. The rational part of his brain had completely shut down as panic and fear washed over him. How much did someone have to drink to kill themselves? And who knew what else he’d taken. They never spoke about it, but he’d inferred drugs had been involved in Grantaire’s life before him. What if he didn’t come round, what if there wasn’t anything they could do? If he died – if he died – _oh god_. The thought caught as a heartwrenching croak in his throat. He wanted to pull his hair out, scream until his lungs collapsed. If he died here, now – what would that do to the meadow? All of those future selves Enjolras had encountered would dissolve into nothing. 

Grantaire was his everything, ever since he was five years old and he’d interrupted Enjolras’ life with his messy hair and his loveable smile, and his effortless ability to make Enjolras laugh; to draw pictures to amuse him, regale him with stories that were wild and wonderful (and try to pass the Iliad off as his own creation), help him with his homework and listen when no one else would, teach him self-defence and reassure him that he wasn’t wrong for wanting to stand up to bullies.

Now he filled Enjolras’ life with such passion, arguing his points with a skill and intelligence and a determination Enjolras never encountered before (even if he was more dedicated to playing devil’s advocate rather than forming his own opinion), constantly challenging him and pushing him to be better, all the while cynically mocking his beliefs. He made Enjolras scream in frustration…made him scream with ecstasy, kissed him until he felt dizzy, fucked him until he couldn’t remember his own name. He was someone Enjolras was going to spend the rest of his life with. Someone for whom it didn’t matter when they fought, because they’d always fought, and Enjolras knew that in the morning everything would be alright, because he was Grantaire. His Grantaire. And he might be different from the person he’d met in the meadow, he might be younger and more erratic and more _wild_ , but it was still Grantaire. He was still his – except now he wasn’t. 

Now he was dying on table whilst doctors pumped his stomach and treated him for god knows what. Now he was a stranger.

Enjolras had known him all of his life, but in that moment he realised he didn’t really know the first thing about him. 

And if he didn’t wake up, if he didn’t survive…

Enjolras stood shaking in the corridor, each haggard breath rocking his frame. He seemed to have shrunk in on himself, and if the doctors walked out with the wrong news, he was certain that he would have collapsed on the spot and would have been unable to move again.


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn’t Enjolras’ fault; none of this was his fault. It was just bad timing.

_February, 1999 (Enjolras is 23, Grantaire is 27)_

Grantaire blinked his eyes open, surprised at how difficult that was. His veins felt like they’d been infused with lead and his lungs were so heavy that even breathing seemed to be an ordeal. His throat was thick, and his brain was pounding like it had been run through a washing machine. It was like every hangover he’d ever had, and ever hangover he had still to come, had been combined by some unholy force and impressed upon him in a single sitting. He wanted to die, that was if he wasn’t dead already. Was this hell; an eternity spent with the worst hangover imaginable? And then there was his stomach. Jesus, had someone been tap dancing on his intestines?  


He tried to sit up but that proved immediately impossible on two counts. The first being that even repositioning his arms to begin to prop himself up took more effort than he was capable of exerting, and the second was that a blur of golden curls had bounded on top him of and was doing a very good job of keeping him pinned down.  


“Grantaire,” Enjolras breathed into his ear, following it with a kiss, and then another and another all the way down his jaw until their mouths clashed together. It was messy and desperate and Enjolras kept repeating his name again and again between breaths.  


“I thought you were dead, I thought I’d lose you forever,” he stopped to bury his head against Grantaire’s collar bone, shaking as tears shuddered through him.  


“Enjolras,” he managed to croak out, summoning the energy to lift a hand and drape it across Enjolras’ back. He tried to think back to what had happened, but it was a messy blur of hazy darkness, and sifting through it was making his headache worse.  


“I didn’t mean what I said.” He murmured into Grantaire’s shoulder.  


The argument.  


Snatches drifted back. It had been ugly; they’d both said some outright awful things.  


“Me too.” Grantaire struggled to say.  


Enjolras lifted his head slightly to peer into Grantaire’s eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday?”  


Grantaire couldn’t pull his eyes away from those imploring pools of blue, couldn’t even bring himself to apologise.  


Thankfully a nurse appeared and removed Enjolras so that she could run some tests on Grantaire. He didn’t go far though. Grantaire could feel him clinging to his hand. A tense silence hung in the air as she moved around, and lingered even after she’d gone.  


“I’m sorry,” Grantaire exhaled after a while. His throat began to loosen up slightly. He gave Enjolras’ fingers a squeeze.  


“Why?”  


“Can we…not,” he breathed. “Not have this conversation when I feel like I’ve been caught in a stampede?”  


Enjolras looked like he might protest, so Grantaire squeezed his hand again.  


“I will tell you, just not today.”  


“You’re not mad with me?”  


“Christ, no it’s not that. I just…” he closed his eyes.  


“Story for a different day?” Enjolras said with a strange inflection. It sounded like an odd thing for him to say, and Grantaire realised, with a lazy smile, that it was probably something an older him had said – repeatedly – to avoid telling Enjolras things he couldn’t share just yet.  


“Exactly.”  


=  


They released him after two more days of observation into Enjolras’ care. Although Grantaire would have much rather gone back to his little apartment, he understood why he found himself at Enjolras’.  


“I need to study,” Enjolras explained unnecessarily, arranging the pillows around Grantaire, who didn’t much like being fussed over this much. “And there’s no space to think in your broom cupboard.”  


“Fair enough.” He rolled over, lifting the duvet over his head. Enjolras had the _look_ again, which meant he was going to ask again, and Grantaire really didn’t want to have that conversation right then.  


“Grantaire,” Enjolras began, before obviously thinking better of it. “I’ll be in the lounge. Courfeyrac’s out all day – but Combeferre will be back from lectures around six, then we’re getting take out, alright?”  


“I’ll be in here, asleep,” he replied, dryly, with more bite than he’d meant. It wasn’t Enjolras’ fault; none of this was his fault. It was just bad timing. Enjolras hesitated, the floorboards squeaking under his feet slightly before he moved decisively to plant a kiss on Grantaire’s forehead and then sweep out of the room.  


=  


He felt like he’d been asleep for days, so when he woke to see sunlight poking through the curtains he began to panic over how many days he’d lost. That was until he saw the time and reason told him he’d been out for a few hours. Groggily he pulled himself out of bed and dragged himself to Enjolras’ en-suite for a much needed piss. Catching sight of himself in the mirror he began to realise why Enjolras had been fussing so much. He looked like death warmed. Hollowed cheeks, sunken eyes – shadow rimmed and blood shot – sallow skin, a few days’ worth of stubble and unruly hair. And he stank, how Enjolras had the composure to allow him to sleep in his bed, Grantaire would never know.  


He stripped and stumbled into the shower, letting the hot water cascade around him, steaming the bathroom and making him feel warm and flushed. He used Enjolras’ soap, used Enjolras’ towel and when he emerged, dry and feeling considerably more alive, he dressed in some of Enjolras’ clothes.  


He found Enjolras sitting on the floor of the living room, surrounded by sheets of paper and bent open text books. He had one pen tucked behind his ear, a highlighter in his mouth and he was scribbling away in his fluent and perfect handwriting. He was so focused on his notes that he didn’t notice Grantaire in the door way, or as he padded across the room. It was only as Grantaire flopped on the sofa and snaked his hands down to Enjolras’ shoulder, the other finding his chin and tilting it back, that he seemed to notice.  


“Morning,” Grantaire grinned, leaning forward to kiss Enjolras upside down.  


“Afternoon,” Enjolras smiled against his lips. “You look much better.”  


“I feel better,” he admitted, fingers dancing across Enjolras’ collar bone. He dropped his elbow so that he was lying on his side, head resting more on Enjolras’ shoulder than the sofa cushions.  


“Let me finish this chapter and then you can have my full attention.”  


“Is that a promise?”  


Enjolras ignored the innuendo in his voice and fixated back on his notes. Grantaire tried to read over his shoulder but it was boring law stuff the he didn’t want to even try to be interested in. Instead he immersed himself in the way the light was dancing through Enjolras’ hair. He twisted his fingers through the golden curls and drew a soft humming noise from Enjolras. Grinning wickedly he made the movement more obvious, tugging gently and twisting the curls round and round. Enjolras let out a small moan and threw his pen down against his notebook.  


“Grantaire,” he breathed sharply.  


“Sorry,” he pulled his hands free and clasped them in his lap.  


“No,” Enjolras pushed his notebook off his lap and untangled himself from the pile of text books. He stood up and wobbled, one or both of his legs obviously fallen asleep. He shook the pins and needles from them before climbing to position himself on top of Grantaire, who rolled onto his back accommodatingly. “You’re right. Here you are, and I’m ignoring you. You’re much more important than revision.”  


“I’m not – that’s not,” Grantaire protested, but Enjolras silenced him with a kiss. Soft and searching and reassuring and tender. Sated, Enjolras rolled off Grantaire so that he was pressed between him and the back of the couch. He nudged Grantaire’s shoulder, who complied by turning slightly so that they were spooning, which seemed to be Enjolras’ idea. He hooked a leg over Grantaire’s and slide his hand round his waist, nuzzling his head to the back of Grantaire’s neck and letting out that satisfied little humming sound.  


“Much more important than revision.”  


Grantaire closed his eyes and basked in the comforting feeling on Enjolras wrapped around him. He knew what was coming. He wasn’t more important than revision. Answers were.  


“It’s strange,” Enjolras whispered, hot breath tickling the back of Grantaire’s neck. “I’ve known you my entire life, but I don’t know anything about you.”  


Grantaire kept his eyes squeezed shut; he still wasn’t ready for this conversation.  


“I’ve been doing this all wrong, haven’t I? I’ve been doing it all backwards. Pushing you to meet my friends that quickly, taking you home for Thanksgiving,”  


Grantaire groaned. That had been an unmitigated disaster. Not to mention humiliating. Needless to say, it was a mistake never to be repeated.  


“Forgetting that this is all still new for you. That actually this is new for me too. I didn’t stop to let us adjust. Didn’t stop to get to know you. The now you. The _past_ you. I want to know you Grantaire. I want to know everything about you.”  


Grantaire snorted. His life was a series of disasters, shot through by bad choices and an awful lot of alcohol. “Where to begin?” he said, sarcasm clear. “I was born in Maine in 1972.”  


“See, I didn’t know you were from Maine.”  


“I moved here when I was two, so I’d say I don’t remember it, but I’ve Travelled back enough times to get the idea.” He fixed his eyes on a text book, watching the light bounce off the glossy cover. “You sure you want to do this now? I know what you’re really asking, even if you’re taking a long winded way of getting there.”  


“Why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday?”  


Grantaire exhaled and cocooned himself in Enjolras’ offered warmth.  


“Because it isn’t my birthday. It hasn’t been since I was ten. It’s the anniversary of my mom’s death.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Kim](http://combeferree.tumblr.com/) for helping with this chapter :)
> 
> -
> 
> [Tumblr!](http://trenchcoatsandtimetravel.tumblr.com/)   
> Come and say hi.  
> 


	3. Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is set immediately after [September, 1987](http://archiveofourown.org/works/950391) (ah, the joys of stories with time travel). Hopefully this isn't too confusing!
> 
> As always, a huge thank you to [Kim](http://combeferree.tumblr.com/) for her continued help with this :)

_February, 1999 (Enjolras is 23, Grantaire is 27)_  


Grantaire woke to sunlight and singing on a bed that was far too comfy, in a room that was both far too clean and far too big; he just couldn’t bring himself to leave Enjolras’ apartment. After a few moments of disorientation that came from falling asleep in a meadow and waking in a bed, he pushed himself to his feet and wandered off in the direction of the kitchen.  


Courfeyrac’s bedroom door was open and he was signing merrily. It was nothing that Grantaire recognised, though it sounded like it belonged on Broadway. He smiled. He liked Courfeyrac. Besides his unprecedented emotional intelligence which had managed to diffuse any awkwardness that might have followed Grantaire’s almost death by drinking, he was just genuinely charming and had a smile for everyone. Grantaire was also convinced that something was happening between him and Jehan, which if it wasn’t, should have been, because the two of them together were adorable and that wasn’t something Grantaire often thought.  


He rearranged his hastily thrown on boxers, which he now came to realise were Enjolras’, which was why they didn’t quite fit properly, and yawned as he flicked on the light in the kitchen.  


The clock on the wall told him it was almost half past five, which was far too late to be thinking about breakfast, and the schedule tacked onto the fridge – because yes, the three of them were organised enough to have a _schedule_ on the _fridge_ – told him Enjolras finished lectures at six and Combeferre’s shift at the hospital ran ‘til seven. Courfeyrac’s evening had been plastered over with a bright pink post-it-note that simply said ‘out’, with a smiley face.  


Dinner it was then. But something that could be heated up whenever they respectively returned.  


He suspected the main reason none of them particularly minded that he seemed to have moved in was the fact that he could cook. As far as he could tell, they’d spent the last few years living together surviving on take out and toast. When he’d first presented them with spaghetti carbonara Courfeyrac had actually squealed with delight, _“It cooks! Can we keep it?!”_  


Grantaire was under no false impressions. Like pretty much every aspect of his life, his culinary skills were adequate rather than impressive. His food was edible, filling and it generally tasted alright. But most importantly, he had no problem what-so-ever spending however long it took to prepare a meal; unlike Enjolras who saw anything more than a two minute microwave job as a waste of time.  


He heard a door creak and the singing grow louder and pulled his head out of the fridge to smile at Courfeyrac.  


“He awakens!” Courfeyrac laughed. “You alright?”  


Grantaire placed the mince he’d pulled from the fridge on the side and blinked at Courfeyrac’s concern.  


“Yeah, fine.”  


“You look sunburnt.”  


Grantaire tried not to flinch as Courfeyrac swooped towards him to peer at his sun blushed cheeks and actually poke at his nose.  


“It’s February. And you’ve been asleep all day. How is that even possible?”  


Saying that he’d spent the day in a meadow under a September sun with a twelve year old Enjolras wasn’t worth the ramifications, so Grantaire shrugged and let Courfeyrac’s imagination wander where it would.  


“I knew Enjolras’ hair possessed the power of the sun,” he said, rocking back on his heels and grinning, so pleased with his own answer that he didn’t bother to push for the truth. He grabbed an apple from a bowl by the sink and took a bite before mumbling through the mouthful that he’d be out all evening but to save him some of whatever was for dinner. With a cheery wave he skipped out, singing between bites.  


=  


Dinner was simmering and Grantaire stretched out on the sofa, more upside down than anything, when Enjolras got in. He’d put a tee shirt and some sweat pants on, but hadn’t bothered to do anything to his hair, and was resting a sketch pad on his thighs as he etched out a picture of the meadow.  


“Hi,” Enjolras huffed, walking immediately through to his room, no doubt to drop his bag of books and half strip. Grantaire grinned, some things never changed. Enjolras returned with his socks and shoes gone, belt discarded and only the thin grey tee shirt he’d been wearing under a button down, under a jacket, under a coat, remaining. He ran a hand through his blonde locks and collapsed on top of Grantaire, who let out a soft ‘oof’ as he did so. He was about to begin lamenting about what had obviously been a tedious day – he had that look about him – when he noticed the sketch and the sunburn on Grantaire’s forearms.  


Grantaire watched him sit up with a smug little smile, and traced the realisation as it dawned on his face.  


“You went to meadow.”  


“Yep.”  


“That was from now? I _thought_ you looked young.”  


He lay down again, horizontal across the couch, and Grantaire’s stomach.  


“I miss those days, well, not really.” He corrected. “I miss you – not that you aren’t – what I mean is,”  


It was funny, watching someone who was usually so eloquent struggled to phrase what he meant. But Grantaire thought understood. He pulled Enjolras down to his mouth and kissed him to shut him up.  


“I’m sorry,” he said, pulling away from breath.  


Enjolras looked confused.  


“Sorry for not being him.”  


Enjolras opened his mouth to say something, so Grantaire hurried on before he could interrupt. This needed to be said.  


“I may still find this all overwhelming, but I think I understand now. I saw the book, and. All those dates. I just.” He shook his head. “Before I met you I was a complete mess. I still am. But I can try; now I have something worth trying for.” He brushed Enjolras’ hair back from where gravity was gently tugging it forwards across his face.  
He was sure he wasn’t really making any sense but hopefully Enjolras would understand. This was all so new, having someone who genuinely cared for him, having an actual reason _not_ to drink himself to death. Ever since his mom died it was like he’d been drowning, just waiting for something to drag him under. He never thought to look for land. But now he had Enjolras, here, who for some unfathomable reason loved him and wanted him. Enjolras who’d gazed up at him in the meadow with huge eyes so full of joy like he was the best person in the world; Grantaire would make a determined effort to keep himself afloat.  


The sofa wasn’t really designed for two people dangling off the edge, so before long the cushion began to slide forwards and they fell in a tangled heap on the floor, which prompted them to stand up and rescue dinner.  


It was burning rather than simmering when Grantaire pulled it off the heat, dishing up two portions before sticking a lid on it and pushing it to the back of the stove for the others when they got back.  


Enjolras was too handsey to make eating all that easy, however, and they only managed a few mouthfuls before Grantaire gave it up as a loss and they made a dash for the bedroom.  


He’d already learnt that Enjolras had a far more defined _on_ -switch than most people. He was either in the mood for sex right there and then, on whatever surface seemed reasonable, in as many ways as possible – or he was distinctly uninterested, and nothing Grantaire could do would change his mind. It might have been impressive if it hadn’t been so frustrating. It did mean that Grantaire wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity now it was being offered, however.  


He stripped without flare and found himself being pushed up against the closed door as Enjolras moved his mouth over him; claiming him. He shuddered as Enjolras trailed kisses down his torso, hands rubbing gentle circles into his thighs. When Enjolras took him into his mouth he let out a small moan of pleasure, hips moving away from the door, just slightly, as he resisted the urge to buck.  


“Oh Christ, Enjolras,” he murmured, as that clever tongue worked him so well, licking strong and slow down the underside of his cock before pulling back to circle the head. Grantaire’s hand moved to Enjolras’ hair, tangling his fingers in the soft blonde curls, his grip tight, whilst the other braced against the door to hold himself steady. If Enjolras didn’t let up soon his knees were going to buckle.  


“Stop…bed…” he managed to gasp.  


With one final, tantalisingly slow drag of his tongue and eyes so obscenely blue and coy, Enjolras pulled away liking his lips and knowing exactly what he was doing to Grantaire.  


“You’re going to be the death of me.” Grantaire exhaled, pulled Enjolras to his feet and pressing flush against him to kiss him deep and urgently.  


He found the bed and collapsed onto it, pulling Enjolras after him and trying to unbutton his jeans as they went. Without a belt they were already slung low, showing off those perfectly defined hip bones of his. Grantaire dropped into the pillows just as he succeeded in undoing the fly and, without bothering to remove the jeans, dipped his hand inside Enjolras’ boxers; dextrous fingers working to draw a startled gasp from his kiss swollen lips.  


His eyes flashed and he pounced forwards, renewing their kisses with vigour. It was urgent, demanding and so fucking good.  


=  


If Combeferre came home, neither of them noticed, nor did they care how licentious the noises were that they drew from each other.  


When they finally fell together, totally spent and utterly indulged, Enjolras gave his happy humming noise and Grantaire had to laugh. Enjolras rolled onto his stomach and laid his head on Grantaire’s chest, tickling it slightly as his hair splayed across it. Grantaire was sure his heart would be pounding deafeningly into Enjolras’ ear. He could feel it galloping uncontrollably and fought to calm it down; fearful that an accelerated pulse might send him spiralling away. He didn’t want to go anywhere just yet. He wanted to stay – forever if he could – with Enjolras pressed against him, the evidence of their exploits mingled with the sheets, overcome with a feeling of such intense belonging. If this was his future, then for the first time since he was ten, and his world had come crumbling down around his ears, then he might actually be okay with that.  


“It was a car accident.” He said quietly, not sure if Enjolras had fallen asleep, half hoping that he had.  


But Enjolras gave an inquisitive mumble which asserted his consciousness.  


“We were driving home from the circus. It had been advertised for ages, two towns over, a big indoor spectacle for the holiday season. I’d been desperate to go. I loved everything about it; the artistry of the trapeze, the juggling, fire breathing,” he paused to clear the painful memories which were crowding his mind.  


Enjolras had twisted to stare up at him, but Grantaire had his eyes fixed dead ahead at the opposite wall.  


“My father absolutely refused to go, but my mom,” he smiled fondly. “She got tickets and whisked me away for a birthday surprise. It was incredible; everything I’d hoped for and more. I was going to become the world’s greatest trapeze artist,” he grimaced. “And I didn’t want to leave. It was February, and the roads were icy, we had a long way to drive, but I wanted to stay longer. She kept saying we had to go home, but I was ten, I didn’t understand. Eventually she convinced me to go, under the promise of hot chocolate, I think. I fell asleep in the car and then all of a sudden there were bright lights, and horns and the screeching of brakes. I Travelled.  


“I found myself in a ditch by the side of the road, being bundled into a blanket whilst sirens blazed and lights flashed all around. Everything just crumbled. All for the sake of a stupid circus, I lost my mom.” He swallowed the lump in his throat and ignored the fact that his eyes were stinging with the threat of tears. “My father, naturally, blamed me and never let me forget that it had been my childish fantasies of circuses an trapeze that had killed her. I think it made me all the more determined. I used to juggle to piss him off.”  


Enjolras’ eyes were wide, his hand splayed across Grantaire’s chest, nails digging in ever so slightly.  


“The worst part,” he laughed bitterly, as if losing his mother wasn’t bad enough. “Is Travelling back. I used to go every year, before I realised that drinking myself paralytic helped keep me away. If you could look at the scene of the accident, you’d see me by the side of the road, on the bridge ahead. I think I’m the one who called the ambulance; I definitely found younger me and wrapped a blanket round him. But no matter how many times I witness it, no matter the vantage point, I can’t ever stop that truck from skidding on the ice, from careering round the corner and barrelling straight into the little blue Caprice. I can travel back in time, but I can’t save my mother. I mean what’s the fucking use?”  


“Grantaire.” Enjolras’ voice was half choked.  


Grantaire finally broke eye contact with the wall and blinked down at him.  


“Sorry. I…I wanted you to understand. I wanted you to know that I wasn’t mad at you. I needed you to know what.”  


“Grantaire,” Enjolras said again, crawling up to plant a hand on either side of his head and give him the most reaffirming kiss he’d ever received. It was enough. It was more than enough. Enjolras was everything Grantaire would ever need and more.  


“Thank you.” He breathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the conflicting mess of emotion is this chapter.
> 
> [Tumblr!](http://trenchcoatsandtimetravel.tumblr.com/)


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